


First Meeting

by wingedamber



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-13
Updated: 2012-03-13
Packaged: 2017-11-01 21:49:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingedamber/pseuds/wingedamber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade goes for a walk and trips over a body in the dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the first fic I've posted, and I ask you to forgive any egregious errors, as I'm still learning. This jumped out of my headcannon and onto some paper, so it's not very polished. I basically just thought I'd put it up.
> 
> Not making any money, not my characters, various various.

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade sits on the balcony. It is raining, he is smoking. Drifts of rain and smoke billow towards him, past his head and through the screen door he sits in front of. Joe will kill him, he hates when the flat smells of cigarettes. Not that it will make much difference. Joe’s leaving him, and will whether he smokes here or on the sidewalk in front of their building. He’s enough of a detective to know the signs. He’s trying to convince himself to care. It’s proving hard. Life’s been very dull, recently, a serious feat when one’s life mostly consists of catching murderers. It’s managed somehow.

Greg decides to go for a walk. He puts out the cigarette on the railing and drops it in the ashtray on the side table. Sweeping his damp hair back from his forehead, he pushes open the screen door and makes his way to the front of the house, snagging his pack of cigarettes and an umbrella as he goes. His hand hesitates over his baton, and then he picks it up, fastens its holster to his belt. It’s the middle of the night, but a policeman never know when he will be needed. He lets himself out of his flat and picks his way down the building’s steps. Exiting the building, he conducts a parameter check before opening his umbrella and pulling a fresh cigarette from his pack. Nothing like security. He lights the cigarette and takes a long drag, leaning the umbrella against his shoulder as he slips the lighter back into his pocket. Time to move. 

He walks up to the corner where his street meets a large avenue and then turns right, avoiding a bag from a fast food restaurant that someone has left on the corner. He automatically falls into his old policeman-on-a-beat gait, though it’s been years since he’s been a street copper. As a Detective Inspector, he spends most of his time behind his desk, until he gets called to a scene. He enjoys the work, but sometimes he misses the walking. His stomach is starting to go round with age. He takes another drag from his cigarette and slows his walk a little. A policeman’s gait is wide, designed to cover as much space in as little time as possible while still looking casual. Now, he’d rather look around. He notes the closed and shuttered store-fronts to his left and scans the buildings across the street for flats whose lights are still on, civilians up as late as he is. Occasionally a car passes, the buffet of air throwing some smoke into his face. He settles into a rhythm of sorts. Lift left foot, read shop name, note closed shutters, plant left foot, lift right foot, turn head to the right, scan for lighted windows, plant right foot. Adjust for oncoming cars as necessary. Every two steps, place filter of cigarette between lips and breathe in.

He passes a pleasant hour and two more cigarettes in this fashion, eventually reaching the area of the city where this avenue turns windy and residential. He turns left into a side street, wanting to make the walk back on a different avenue. He is just thinking about how much easier this is than his current job when he stumbles across a body on the sidewalk. His first thought is “bloody figures” and his second is puzzlement. The prone figure is wearing a long night-black overcoat and has black hair, explaining why Greg didn’t notice him on the sidewalk. He kneels down and picks up the figure’s wrist, searching for a pulse. It is there, and much quicker than he was expecting. His thoughts jump from “possible murder” to “probable drug overdose.” He flips the figure over, taking note of the prominent cheekbones, made more so by the figure’s pallor. It is definitely a man, made obvious both by his cheekbones and cut of his black overcoat, one sleeve rolled up to expose the sleeve of a button-up, cuff undone and looking like it was hastily shoved back over his forearm. Greg carefully rolls up the man’s sleeve to reveal lines and lines of track marks criss-crossing his inner elbow. 

In future years, Greg will never be able to rationalize his next decision. At one point, he tries to excuse it by referencing the man’s cheekbones. Even he realizes what a weak excuse this is. He has determined that a) the man has obviously overdosed on heroin b) he is young and c) he is not in immediate medical danger. His proper recourse is to reach into his pocket, pull out his cell phone, and call the Yard to send a squad car. Instead, he slings one of the man’s arms over his own shoulder and holds them both up, dragging the man along the few meters to the larger avenue. They come to the end of the sidewalk and Greg looks around for a cab, knowing it’s unlikely at this time of the morning. Like fate, a cab pulls up. Greg slings the other man into the back, instinctually apologizes to the cabbie for his friend’s unconsciousness, and gives his own address. The car pulls away from the curb and heads in the direction of Greg's flat as Sherlock Holmes breathes slowly on the seat of the cab beside him.


End file.
